


Tamed

by littleliontree (gentledusk)



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types, Pocket Monsters: X & Y | Pokemon X & Y Versions
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, Hair Brushing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-27
Updated: 2014-03-17
Packaged: 2018-01-13 23:51:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1244950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gentledusk/pseuds/littleliontree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fem!Lysandre/Sycamore. Having someone so willing to do as she asks is quite the entertaining situation to be in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Fem!Lysandre allowing Sycamore to do her makeovers. Him slowly combing her long silky hair, almost savoring it; him giving her manicures and pedicures; him applying the makeup. And her just sitting there, smug, like a queen with her personal servant.  
> For ‘anon’
> 
> This whole thing came from imagining a calm, cool, and collected Lysandra being totally confident in herself, and our usual lovable dork Augustine Sycamore being completely and utterly smitten with her. And yes, Lysandra is an actual name.

The first time Lysandra meets Professor Sycamore, he looks her right in the eyes. He doesn’t give her a once-over, he doesn’t stare at her breasts like many of the other men she’s met, despite the fact that it would be rather easy for him to do so, given their respective heights. He doesn’t seem to be intimidated by her at all, despite what people have told her about her being imposing in stature and demeanour. He simply smiles up at her and greets her with sincere enthusiasm, clearly excited to be meeting not just the head of Lysandra Labs and owner of Lysandra Café, but Lysandra herself, the person behind it all. He shakes her hand and introduces himself and they spend the rest of their meeting talking animatedly about mega-evolution and the possibilities it holds.

She thinks she’s going to like this man.

~

“Professor,” she says one day, several months into their acquaintance, “you’ve been staring at me quite a lot lately. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

“O-Oh?”

They are in Professor Sycamore’s office, in his lab, with Lysandra sitting at a desk reading an article and Professor Sycamore sitting across from her doing the same. She’d happened to look up, at some point, only to see him quickly looking down, pretending to be engrossed in his article. She’d done it again, just to see, and the same thing had happened. This isn’t the only time she’s caught him pretending he hasn’t been staring, recently—she’s noticed it when they’re eating lunch together at her café, when she’s in the middle of making a passionate speech, and so on. It really is rather entertaining watching him fail so utterly at subtlety.

“There’s no use trying to deny it, Professor. Care to explain?”

Professor Sycamore gulps, suddenly looking anywhere but at her. “W-Well…erm…you’re…you’re a very beautiful woman, you know.”

“I know,” says Lysandra matter-of-factly, and he lets out a short bark of laughter at her bluntness.

“Direct as always, aren’t you?” he says with a fond smile.

“Yes,” she says, “and I know that if you were merely distracted by my appearance, as you claim, then I would have caught you staring far sooner in our acquaintance. You’re not exactly subtle about it, Professor, as much as you try to be. So, what’s the _real_ reason?”

Professor Sycamore quails under the force of her intense gaze, looking down at his hands and wringing them as he attempts to stammer out a reply. “W-Well…if you must know…”

“I must,” she says, tapping her foot impatiently.

“I imagine…I imagine brushing your hair.”

Well. That was certainly a lot tamer than she’d been expecting. No pun intended. “That’s all? Brushing my hair?”

“Y-Yes!” he squeaks, blushing at the implication of him imagining… _other_ things. “It-it just looks so soft, and, and silky, I’m sure you must take very good care of it…”

“I do,” she replies, amused by his flustered reaction. Maybe he’s telling the truth, maybe he’s not. Either way, she’ll coax those imaginings out of him some other time. For now, she simply opens her purse, taking out a hairbrush and holding it out to Professor Sycamore. “Come over here.”

“Oh…oh no, I would never think to presume—”

“It’s not ‘presuming’ if I’m asking you to do it,” she says, pulling her hair out of her trademark high ponytail and letting it drape loosely around her head. “In fact, I’m commanding you to do it. Come here, _Augustine._ ”

Professor Sycamore—or Augustine, rather—shivers at that, jumping up out of his chair immediately and coming around to stand behind her. Hmm. Perhaps she should try ordering him around more. And using his first name. He seems to like that.

“S-So…you want me to…”

“Brush my hair, Augustine,” she says, pressing the brush into his uncertain hands. The commanding tone and the use of his first name work like a charm once again, and moments later she can feel the brush being pulled gently through her hair.

“Is this ok?” he asks.

“You may use your fingers as well, if you’d like,” she replies.

A few minutes later Augustine’s fingers are carding delicately through her hair, as if it is something precious, as if this is some unbelievable opportunity she has granted him that he may never have again. The thought amuses her, and she leans back in her chair comfortably, sighing in contentment at the careful brushstrokes and almost reverent touches of his fingers. At some point, Augustine apparently grows a little bolder, because his fingertips start to massage at her scalp, scratching lightly from time to time. She makes a soft sound of approval at that and he swallows audibly, setting the brush down on the desk and bringing up his other hand to join in as well. Lysandra practically purrs at the attention, closing her eyes and allowing herself to relax further into the touch. He’s quite good at this, she thinks idly. Perhaps she should get him to do this more often. She’s almost certain he wouldn’t object.

She knows Augustine has to stop _eventually_ , but that doesn’t stop her from nearly making a noise of protest when he reluctantly pulls his hands away. She most definitely needs to ask—no, _command_ him to do this again. Perhaps at her home next time—she has a vanity, there, and a large assortment of brushes and combs and hair products for him to get his hands on. Perhaps she can even get him to do her entire beauty regime, if she teaches him how and asks nicely—or rather, if she commands him sweetly enough.

“S-So, ah…was that…good?” Augustine says, looking at her with wide, hopeful eyes. He reminds her of a puppy, really, eager to please and practically begging for approval.

Lysandra stands and turns to face him, towering over him and enjoying watching him squirm in the face of her unrelenting stare. Finally, after a few minutes of this, she smiles at him, and he relaxes, just the tiniest bit. “It was quite _satisfying_ , Augustine, thank you,” she says, smile turning into something sharp and predatory as he flushes at her words. “Perhaps I shall ask you to do this again sometime. Did you enjoy it?”

“Did…d-did I…” he stutters, cheeks turning an even brighter shade of red, and Lysandra feels inordinately pleased with herself for reducing ‘ladies’ man’ Augustine Sycamore to this blushing, stammering mess.

“Well? Did you?”

“Well, I…I, er, that is…yes,” he says, looking like he wants to sink into the floor.

“Good. Do you have any plans for tomorrow?”

“P-Plans? No, I don’t think—but why—”

“Excellent. Come to my home tomorrow after you’ve had your breakfast, I have a job for you.”

“A…job? What kind of job?”

“It occurred to me, while you were brushing my hair, that I have quite a lot of brushes, and combs, and various hair products that I would like you to try on my hair. Interested?”

“Yes!” Augustine blurts out immediately, looking like he can’t believe his luck, before clapping a hand over his mouth in complete mortification.

“Good,” she says, smiling at his eagerness. _Good boy_ , she almost says, but that is an experiment for another day. “Oh, and by the way…”

“Y-Yes?”

“How do you feel about makeup?” she asks. She’s pretty sure he has no idea how to apply it, but there’s always room to learn. Perhaps, in the meantime, she can get him to apply her lotion as she does her makeup, lecturing him on makeup techniques and silently laughing as she watches him struggle to pay attention. See how well he remembers when he’s being asked to rub his hands all over her bare skin. Just the arms, of course, and perhaps the legs if she’s feeling especially sadistic, nothing _indecent_ per se, but considering his track record of getting distracted by her she thinks it’ll be enough. Especially if she gets him to kneel in front of her as she stretches her leg out for him to rub lotion onto, just to see if he’ll do it, just to see how far he’ll go for her commanding voice and a sweet whisper of his name, like a loyal subject and his queen…

Lysandra smirks. Tomorrow promises to be a very interesting day.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lysandra gets Augustine to rub lotion on her legs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The UST must go on!

When Augustine arrives at Lysandra’s house the next morning after hastily scarfing down a quick, thrown-together breakfast, he’s not quite sure what to expect. Certainly not Lysandra in a dark, elegant silk dressing-gown answering the door, hair down out of its usual ponytail and draping over her shoulders in bright red waves.

“Come in,” she says, stepping aside to let him through the door.

The inside of the house is as elegant as its owner, beautifully furnished without being extravagant. He follows her nervously as she leads him down one of the halls, up a flight of stairs, and down another hall, finally stopping in front of an ornate wooden door.

“What room is this?” he asks, curiosity winning out over nerves for the moment.

“My bedroom,” she says.

Augustine’s face flushes at the words. Her bedroom? She’s inviting him into her bedroom? “Ah…are you sure that’s appropriate? I-I only mean, I wouldn’t want to—”

“Why?” she interrupts, smiling sweetly at him. “Are you going to do something… _inappropriate_?”

“N-No!” he squeaks, feeling his face heat further at the question. “No, most definitely not!”

“Then I fail to see the problem,” she says, swinging the door open and ushering him inside. “I simply chose it because it is the place where I normally make my preparations for the day. I am the one who is inviting you in. Now, come here.”

Thoroughly flustered now, Augustine chooses to stay silent as he follows her beckoning hand, coming to stand behind the red velvet stool where she is sitting. A wooden vanity, edged in gold trim, sits in front of her, covered in various beauty products. It’s oddly fascinating to see the place where Lysandra gets ready to face the world every morning, to use her clothes and makeup like armour, in a way, with her charisma as her weapon. She’s a hurricane, she really is, shattering every preconception that people might have had about women in the world of business, trampling all those who would dare laugh at a woman of science beneath her feet. _What a woman,_ he thinks dreamily, just barely stopping himself from sighing like some love-struck fool.

“We’ll start with one of these,” she says, pointing to an assortment of brushes. “Take your pick.”

Augustine has no idea which brush to pick, and what the difference even is, though he’s sure she has a use for each and every one. Panicking slightly, he selects one at random, hoping that she won’t be judging him for his choice, and starts to brush Lysandra’s long, beautiful hair.

“Would you be interested in doing this more often?” she asks idly.

“Yes!” he replies eagerly, before blushing at how quickly he’d jumped at her request. “I mean…if. If you’d like me to. I wouldn’t mind.”

Lysandra says nothing, merely smiling a small, mysterious smile, as if there is something privately amusing to her. Augustine restrains himself from groaning and burying his face in his hands. She really has got him wrapped around her little finger, and she probably knows it. He only hopes that she won’t ask something particularly outrageous of him, like…like dressing in drag and doing the hula, or something, because heaven knows he’ll feel compelled to do it anyway, just to please her, just to see that unfairly attractive smirk of satisfaction on her face.

He’s not really sure how long he brushes her hair for, distracted as he is by running his fingers through the soft, silky strands and the contented little sighs Lysandra makes when he massages her scalp. She practically purrs as he scratches gently at the nape of her neck, and he finds himself wondering if she enjoys this as much as he does, if this is going to become a regular thing now. He certainly wouldn’t be opposed to it…

“There’s something else I’d like you to do for me,” she says after a while, setting down her makeup brush and taking back her hairbrush. She sets the hairbrush down as well and undoes the tie to her dressing-gown.

“Wha-wha-what are you doing?” he squeaks, panicking internally as Lysandra _takes off_ her dressing-gown to reveal a black, lace-trimmed slip dress underneath. The neckline dips very, very low and the hem rises very, very high, and Augustine wonders what he’s done to deserve being put into such a situation at this very moment. He’s still not sure if this situation is very, very good or very, very _bad._

“I’m taking off my dressing-gown,” she says matter-of-factly.

“But…but… _why_?”

“To allow you better access, of course,” she says.

Augustine blushes at the words. “B-Better access? For what?”

“For this,” she says, reaching for a large, squeezable bottle and handing it to Augustine. “I want you to apply this to my skin. Arms and legs, if you please.”

Augustine stares at the bottle now in his hand. Lotion…? She wants him to…to… “I…I c-couldn’t, I wouldn’t want to overstep—”

“I’ve told you before, it’s not ‘overstepping’ if I’ve asked you to do it, Augustine,” Lysandra says impatiently. “I’m still perfectly covered, if that’s what you’re worried about, and I’m the one who’s asking you to do it. You’re not ‘overstepping’ anything.”

Augustine has the urge to laugh hysterically. She’s either aware of his feelings and is toying with him, or she’s genuinely unaware of the kind of situation she’s putting him into and is acting so comfortable around him because she sees him as a trusted friend. Either way, he’s probably going to end up making a fool of himself somehow.

“Will you do it for me, Augustine?” she asks softly, meeting his gaze in the mirror, and oh, now that’s just _unfair_ , her low, smoky voice practically caressing the request, the syllables of his name, how can he even think about refusing now?

“I will,” he says as steadily as he can manage, opening the bottle and squeezing some lotion onto his hands. He sets the bottle back down on the vanity, tentatively placing his hands on Lysandra’s shoulders. She nods at him, holding an arm out to the side, and he begins to rub the lotion onto her skin. She is saying something about makeup, he thinks, but he can barely hear her over the rushing inside his own head. It’s ridiculous, really, how flustered he gets by every little thing around her, but he’s _touching her_ , touching her _bare skin_ , and there’s nothing sexual about it but he still can’t help but feel like this is all very intimate somehow. For such a fiery person, she has quite the reputation as an ‘ice queen’ amongst others. True or not, he knows she doesn’t let just anyone touch her, and he’s not sure what to think about the fact that he seems to be not ‘just anyone’ to her.

“Did you get all that?” she asks, smirking at him in the mirror as he jumps about a foot in the air. He shakes his head guiltily, and she merely sighs and holds out her other arm for him. When he is done with that arm as well, she turns around on her stool to face him, stretching out a leg and looking up at him expectantly.

Augustine gulps as he slowly sinks to his knees, gripping the bottle of lotion tightly in his hand. Lysandra stares down at him impassively as he drags his eyes up her long, bare legs, head snapping back down immediately as he realizes what he’s doing. His cheeks burn with humiliation as he squeezes some lotion into his palm with one shaking hand. Surely she’d noticed his terribly impertinent staring. For heaven’s sake, she’d only asked him to put lotion on her legs, not to ogle her shapely calves and her luscious thighs and—

Augustine shakes his head violently in an attempt to clear it of the images rising in his mind. Lysandra is his _friend,_ and she _trusts_ him, trusts him enough to invite him inside her home and let him see her like this, let him see her before she’s put on the armour that she faces the world with every day. He can’t abuse that trust.

“Are you not going to do it, then?” she asks, as if it doesn’t matter to her one way or the other.

Augustine is tempted, very tempted, to say yes and just run as fast as he can away from this situation, away from those long, long legs and that knowing, cat-like grin. But he is also tempted—very, very tempted—to stay here and follow Lysandra’s orders, to rub his slippery hands all over her pale, smooth skin, to stay here in this submissive, servile position just for her…

“I can do it myself, if you’d prefer,” she says, running a hand up her leg as if to demonstrate, and she has to know what she’s doing to him, has to know that every moment of this is sweet, sweet torture, has to know that there was never any real question at all.

“I’ll do it,” he manages to choke out, ducking his head down quickly to hide his bright red face, but not before he catches a glimpse of the triumphant smirk on Lysandra’s face.

“Good boy,” she says approvingly. His head snaps up at that to see a brief look of surprise crossing her face, as if she hadn’t been intending to say that, before her expression smoothes out again and becomes the calm, commanding one that he knows so well.

Augustine feels his cheeks burning once again and wonders if it is possible for him to spontaneously combust from all the blushing she’s causing him to do. _Good boy._ Resisting the urge to shake his head to clear it, lest she misunderstand once more, he rubs his hands together and then places them, trembling, onto one pale ankle. He moves his hands slowly, carefully along her skin, making sure that every inch is attended to. He wants to make sure that he does a perfect job for Lysandra, who only deserves the best of the best. And maybe…just maybe, if he’s very, very good, he can get Lysandra to say those words again.

_Good boy._

Not once does he ask himself why Lysandra couldn’t just do this herself. If she would rather have him do it, then he’s certainly not complaining. Who is he to question the whims of his queen? If she wants to take amusement at his current predicament, then take amusement she shall. By the end of all this he’ll probably be blushing brightly enough to light up all of Lumiose, but it’ll be worth it. It’ll all be worth it, for her.

His hands inch steadily closer and closer to her thigh, stopping just at her knee when he loses the nerve to continue. Instead, he puts some more lotion on his hands and switches to her other leg, starting at the ankle again and moving slowly up her calf. He chances another glance upwards and sees an indulgent smile on Lysandra’s face, as if she knows exactly what he is doing and is allowing it, for now. Eventually, though, he reaches the knee on this leg as well, and now he cannot avoid it any longer.

He’s going to have to touch her thighs.

Fundamentally, he knows that there is nothing different about this and what he’s already been doing, it’s all just rubbing lotion onto her skin. But, well, arms are one thing, but legs, and thighs in particular, are another thing entirely. There’s also the fact that she’s wearing a slip, a _dangerously_ short one, at that, and in the position he’s in he can nearly see right up her dress. Not that he’s trying to, of course, that wouldn’t be very gentlemanly at _all._ Do women usually ask their friends to touch their thighs? Is she implying something by this request, or is she just seeing how far she can push him with this teasing and taking pleasure in watching him squirm? Now there’s a thought, isn’t there, Lysandra teasing him until he can’t take it any more, not stopping until he begs for mercy, taking pleasure in making him squirm and beg and plead and—

Augustine shifts uncomfortably on his knees, hoping desperately that Lysandra won’t be able to see just how much this situation is…affecting him. Silently, he curses the abundance of tight pants in his closet and his unfortunate decision to wear one such pair today. Well, on with it, then. He’ll just have to hope that she will be kind enough not to comment should she happen to notice his current predicament.

“Well, are you going to do it, or not?” she asks, and he jumps and hurriedly squeezes some more lotion onto his hands, placing them unsteadily onto one creamy thigh. Her lips part as his hands finally begin to move over soft skin, heart hammering against his ribs as he touches her reverently.

He goes as slowly as he dares, both because he wants to savour this moment and because he’s afraid of going too far up her leg, afraid of his fingers brushing up against the hem of that far-too-short slip, afraid of moving up the inside of her thigh, moving closer and closer to—

“I haven’t got all day, Augustine,” she says.

He breathes deeply, trying to gather his courage. He is Augustine Sycamore, charmer of women across the region, and yet here he is, brought to his knees, literally, by one such woman. Though, if there were one person he’d willingly get on his knees for, it would most definitely be her, he’d most likely be willing to arrange himself for her anytime, anywhere, in whatever position she wished of him...but that isn’t the point here. The point is that Lysandra is getting impatient, and it is his duty to rectify this. He moves his hands higher, and higher, until finally they are resting on either side of her thigh, fingertips brushing the lacy trim of her slip.

“Now the other one,” she says with a smile. Augustine wonders if this is it, if this is how he’s going to die, from Lysandra tormenting him until he explodes from pent-up sexual frustration. Well…he can certainly think of worse ways to go.

He tries to detach himself from the process, this time, but Lysandra is very, very distracting, even when she’s sitting there not really doing anything. She’s sitting pretty, that’s for sure, quite literally, but it’s more than that. There’s the possibility of what she _could_ do, that distracts him—she could decide he’s not doing a good enough job and dismiss him to finish it herself, she could deem him unworthy of touching her and call the whole thing off…or she could notice his guilty arousal, how pathetically turned on he is by the littlest things around her. She could put one bare foot in his lap and press _down_ , stepping on him, smiling smugly at him as she asks him just how _easy_ it is for her to do this to him, basking in the power she has over him as she watches his face burn with humiliation…

Lysandra makes a soft, pleased little sound as he rubs gentle circles into her inner thigh, and he is ashamed of how much he _wants_ , wants to be the only one to hear those perfect sounds she makes, wants to prostrate himself at her feet and offer his humble service to her every desire. He does the same with his other hand on her other thigh, both hands circling around and around, and Lysandra makes one of those noises again, spreading her legs just the tiniest bit wider at his touch. Part of him wants to just throw himself to the ground and beg for mercy, beg for her to have pity on him and stop this…whatever this is, whether it is a game to her or something else, while he still has blood left in his brain. Another part of him—presumably, the part where all the blood is flowing to at the moment—is quite happy to stay right where he is now, thank you very much. Apparently that part is winning, because he can’t seem to bring himself to tear his hands away, can’t seem to bring himself to take his eyes off of her. She’s gorgeous and perfect and he’s _touching her_ , because she’s _letting him_ , and his hands are inching higher and higher and she’s not stopping him and soon enough his fingertips are just beneath the lacy hem of her slip and he has to force himself to stop because _that_ would definitely be overstepping his bounds and he’s not about to do anything that Lysandra hasn’t given him permission to do.

He doesn’t think he’s ever been so turned on in his life.

“I’m-I’m done,” he chokes out, removing his hands hastily before he can rethink his decision. He puts them in what he hopes is a discrete position over his lap.

“Is that so?” she asks, arching a brow at him, and _oh no_ , he thinks, _now what is she going to ask of me, is it going to be another thing like this, I’m not sure I can take any more_. Fortunately, though, she seems to take pity on him, and merely says “Very well,” before taking the lotion back from him and putting it back in its place.

He doesn’t know why he stays kneeling there in front of her—he’s done now, finished with his task, but he quite likes the position he’s in at the moment…or, rather, he would like it more if he weren’t so uncomfortably aroused and afraid of her reaction to said arousal. There’s also the fact that he kind of feels the need to wait for her permission—he doesn’t _have_ to, really, but, well, there’s a kind of automatic submission to her that takes over him every time she’s with him, and he finds himself unable to move, paralyzed by her hold over him.

“That will be all, Augustine,” she says.

Augustine breathes a sigh of relief.

“…For now,” she adds, and he gulps. ‘For now’? Is she…is she going to ask _more_ of him the next time? He’s not sure his poor heart will be able to take it. He’ll end up doing it anyway, of course, but what else can she even ask him to do for her? His head begins to swim as his imagination starts to roam, conjuring up an image of them in this exact same position, with her asking him to ‘service’ her, letting him part her thighs and press his face between them, him breathing in deeply and—

“…tine. Augustine!”

“Y-Yes?” he replies guiltily after jumping about a foot in the air, kneeling position notwithstanding.

Lysandra looks like she’s about to laugh, but thankfully restrains herself. Augustine fights the urge to hang his head in humiliation. “I was just saying that you may use my bathroom, if you wish. It’s just through that door over there.”

“Bathroom?”

“Yes. You look like you might need to…freshen yourself up a little bit,” she says, smiling innocently at him as his cheeks heat (she’s not _innocent_ , not really, she always knows exactly what she’s doing, knows exactly which strings to pull to get what she wants).

“Yes! Yes! I’ll go do that!” he agrees hurriedly, jumping to his feet and doing his best not to bolt into the bathroom.

Lysandra, mercifully, says nothing as he scurries away, but he’s sure she _knows_ anyway, is sure that she’s secretly laughing at him behind the veneer of those calm blue eyes and that pretty, not-so-innocent smile. He leans heavily on the counter, taking slow, deep breaths to try and calm himself, but then he realizes that this is the place where Lysandra _bathes_ , undresses, slips every bit of clothing off her pale, lovely body before she steps into the shower or slides into the tub…maybe some days she steps under the spray of the showerhead, sliding a bar of soap slickly across her skin…maybe other days she reclines amongst bubbles or scented oils, stretching out luxuriously in the warm water…

Augustine groans and presses his forehead onto the cool marble of the countertop. His erection is downright painful by now, but he can’t just…he can’t just _take care of it_ right here, right now, in Lysandra’s _bathroom_ , with her _right there_ outside where she will probably know exactly what she’s doing. But he can’t just go outside like this either, his unfortunately tight pants don’t really hide anything at all…

…Arceus, she’s never going to let him live this down, is she?


End file.
